For once in his life the self-possessed barrister had blanched at a sudden revelation. But this was too much. He felt as though a meteorite had fallen on his head. Nevertheless, he grappled with the situation.
“Ill! No!” he cried. “How stupid of me. I have forgotten my morning smoke. May I light a cigar?”
“With pleasure. You know these. Try one.”
“You were saying—”
“That’s all. This young fellow, Mensmore his name is, got mixed up with me over a Californian mine. I thought he had lots of coin, so when Springboks came along he and I went shares in underwriting them. The public didn’t feed, so we were loaded. I tried all I knew to get him to pay up, but he absolutely couldn’t. And now at the very moment affairs look promising he writes offering £2,000. More than that, he says, if necessary, he can get the remainder of his half, £1750, from somebody. Where is his letter?”
Mr. Dodge looked on his table. “Oh, here it is. Addressed from ‘Yacht White Heather,’ if you please. Quite swell, eh? Sir William Browne! That’s the covey. I think I will let Sir William have ’em. It’s a good, solid sort of name to have on the share register.”
“I would if I were you,” said Bruce, hardly conscious of his surroundings.
“If you think so, I will. By Jove, this has been a good morning for me. Come and have lunch.”
“No, thanks. I have a lot to attend to. By the way, where did Mensmore live?”
“I don’t know. His address was always at the Orleans Club.”